


The Difference

by kathryne



Series: The Past Forty Years [3]
Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: Emotionally Repressed, Gen, Pre-Series, Unexpected feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 10:15:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11826639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathryne/pseuds/kathryne
Summary: Robert pitched the beach house as a sanctuary, a place of renewal and relaxation; like so many of his promises, it hasn't exactly worked out.  Grace is halfway down the stairs before she realises she's not, actually, alone.  Without thinking, she freezes in place.  "Too late," Frankie says from the dining table, "I hear ya, I know you're not dead up there."  And then Grace has to come down or it'll look like she's hiding – from Frankie, of all people.*I thought I'd write about Grace having some pre-series angst, for a change.





	The Difference

**Author's Note:**

> This came from a tumblr prompt by @flutter2deceive, who asked for _"Are you flirting with me?"_
> 
> I am on tumblr at @sapphoshands, where I have a lot of feelings about these ladies and their faces and their emotions.

Two teenagers in her own home is bad enough, most of the time. _Four_ teenagers, plus Sol and Frankie and their _dog_ , in the much smaller shared space at the beach house? Grace thinks discretion is the better part of valour and retreats upstairs to the bedroom as soon as the lunch dishes are washed. Robert pitched the beach house as a sanctuary, a place of renewal and relaxation; like so many of his promises, it hasn't exactly worked out. 

After an hour or so of solitude, she decides a martini will make the rest of the afternoon much easier to bear. When she hovers at the top of the stairs, just out of sight, she can't hear anything from below. They must all be out on the beach having fun. She ought to feel abandoned, but mostly she just feels relieved. Sure, they're probably going to drag in sand and seaweed and shells, and the place is going to smell like wet dog instead of patchouli, and even if anyone else does try to clean up she's going to have to follow them and fix whatever they've missed, but at least she'll get to have a break first.

And that martini.

She's halfway down the stairs before she realises she's not, actually, alone. Without thinking, she freezes in place. "Too late," Frankie says from the dining table, "I hear ya, I know you're not dead up there." And then Grace has to come down or it'll look like she's hiding – from Frankie, of all people.

She hovers at the bottom of the stairs, torn between wanting to appear polite and needing a drink before she does so. Frankie makes the decision for her, turning away from the sketchpad and pencils scattered on the table. "They all hit the movies," she says, answering Grace's unasked question. "Sol convinced Robert they should take the kids to that animated thing with the sports stars. But we didn't think it'd be your jam." She cackles, unaccountably pleased with herself. Under the table, Mahatma raises his head and lets out an emphatic _wuff_ , sounding for all the world like he's laughing at Grace too.

"Oh. Well. That's nice." It is: Robert participating in an activity with the girls she didn't have to schedule for him is an unusual pleasure. "You didn't go? It sounds just like your, uh. Jam."

"Nah." Frankie shrugs. "Too much new input interferes with the artistic process." She nods at the page in front of her, which has a few scattered lines and dots of colour on it. It doesn't look like much, but then, Frankie's so-called art rarely matches Grace's definition of the term. "Gotta keep the inner eye free."

"I see." Grace tucks her arms closer to her sides.

"Plus, Coyote's been getting pissy every time his voice breaks and I laugh." Surprised, Grace snorts despite herself, and Frankie adds, "An afternoon with Brianna, and only Sol there to protect him? He'll miss me later."

Grace stiffens at the implied insult to her daughter, but there's no sense trying to refute it, especially when Frankie actually sounds put out by the idea that she might not measure up. "Well," she says again, gathering herself, "don't let me interrupt."

"Yeah, not a problem," Frankie says, already turning away. "But hey," she calls before Grace has taken more than a couple of steps. Grace turns and raises an eyebrow. "If you're gonna get liquored up, why don't'cha pour me a glass of wine first?"

"What makes you think – I mean, I, I'm not – " Frankie tilts her head and pins her with a skeptical look. Grace sighs. "Fine. Anything to lubricate the artistic process."

In the kitchen, she finds herself moving slowly, trying not to be too loud. The last thing she wants is Frankie complaining she's harshing her buzz, or whatever she calls it. Once she's got Frankie a nice big glass of wine and settled herself with a martini and a book, though, Grace finds she's unwinding unexpectedly. She snuggles back into the couch cushions and feels her shoulders ease down from around her ears. She can hear Frankie's pencil scratch against the paper, hear her huff and clatter her wine glass and occasionally swear at the page, but it's not distracting at all. Even Mahatma's doggy snores are just rhythmic background noise, reminding her she's not alone. She's not used to sharing space with someone else without needing to talk. Certainly it's different from working at home, with Robert off in his study and the girls in their rooms. In fact, it's almost... nice.

"Say, Grace." Frankie chortles, as she always does when she has the chance to make fun of Grace's business. Grace jerks in surprise, nearly spilling her martini, and groans internally. She should've known it'd be too good to last. "If you don't mind, can you just, uh, with your hair..." Grace turns to see Frankie waving her hands at the sides of her head, looking more deranged than usual.

"Can I what?" She's all out of sorts from the abrupt interruption of one of the most pleasant afternoons she's had in quite some time. She's in no mood to put up with Frankie's bullshit.

"Stick it behind your ear a bit?" Frankie demonstrates, pushing down her thick locks, and Grace copies her automatically, tucking her layers back. "Oh, perfect, yeah, perfect." Frankie stares at her for a long moment before grabbing her pencil and looking back down at her sketchbook.

"Frankie? What the hell?" Grace holds still, half-afraid to provoke another unexpected demand.

Frankie looks up and smiles. "Damn, Grace, you've got amazing bone structure, you know that? Just like a model."

"Frankie, what are you – are you – " Grace is completely discombobulated. _Are you flirting with me?_ she almost asks before she gets control of herself. Absurd, it's absurd, with their children – and their husbands! – coming home any moment. But the question leapt to mind unprompted – and stays there, given this continued attention and the way Frankie's focus narrows in on her face. Grace feels the heat rise in her cheeks, thinks, for some reason, of her date to senior prom putting his arm around her for their photos and telling her she was beautiful when she blushed.

"Or maybe like those statues they sell in art supply stores," Frankie continues. "The skeletons, or the wooden ones. I guess it's because with you I can really see the bones, you know." She looks down again, giving Grace a second to catch her breath.

"Are you... _drawing_ me?" Grace gets out once she's certain she can keep her voice steady. Somehow the possibility is making her tremble.

"Hm? Oh, yeah, what'd you think?" Frankie's easy reply makes Grace's chest clench. "I mean, not _you_ -you, I'm not doing a portrait or anything like that. I just need some reference. The head bone's connected to the neck bone and all, but it helps to be able to see how everything fits together." She waves her pencil in the air and nearly drops it into her empty wine glass.

"So you're _not_ drawing me," Grace repeats, just to make sure. Is she disappointed? Surely not. Surely that's just as absurd as – as anything else she's wondered this afternoon. "Then what are you...?"

Now Frankie looks flustered too. Her hands flutter like she wants to close the sketchpad and protect whatever she's been working on. "Oh, gosh, just – getting some ideas out, you know? Clearing out the ol' noggin. Working on a series of thoughtpieces I've been playing around with. Studies of where my brain's at. The artist's way. You get me?" Grace doesn't. She shifts, halfway to getting up, and Frankie blurts, "I don't have to – I – I mean, if you're gonna be all weird about it I won't – if you've got a problem with it!" She clenches her fists, tugging on the flowing purple caftan she's wearing.

"I – no," Grace finds herself saying. She settles back on the couch, watches Frankie slump in her chair. "It's fine. It's – whatever, Frankie, you do what you want, okay?" Picking up her book, she leans into the couch cushions again. After a moment, she reaches up, making sure her hair is still tucked behind her ear.

"Thanks," Frankie says quietly, before falling silent once more.

But it's not like before, Grace finds. Now she can't help but be hyper-focussed on every move Frankie makes. She stares at the pages of her book, turns them occasionally, but she has no idea what she's reading. Instead she's listening with all her might. Every scratch of Frankie's pencil is another line on the page that might be _her_ , or some part of her. Every sigh might mean something she's done wrong, something Frankie wants that she can't give. 

Grace has learned to tell when she's being looked at. It comes in handy as a business tool: the awareness she's developed has saved her many an argument in favour of batting her baby blues and flattering some man. But this – she's just as aware, now, but it doesn't feel the same. She's felt like this around Frankie before, though she always ignored it, chalked it up to Frankie being high, or weird, or high and weird. It's not just being looked at. It's being seen. Frankie, she suddenly thinks, sees her. And Grace can't decide whether she wants to sink down behind the couch cushions or sit up as straight as she can.

Sightlessly, she turns another page. Behind her, Frankie sighs.

When everyone else gets home, it's like an invasion. Mallory slams through the door first, a small blonde whirlwind in an oversized white sweatshirt. Coyote and Bud are right behind her, arguing; Coyote's voice squeaks into its upper register and Grace buries her face in her martini to disguise her giggle. Mahatma struggles out from under the table to greet them, dragging one of the chairs with him. " _Gawd_ ," Brianna exclaims as she walks in and heads straight for the stairs, "I can't _deal_ with this much _insanity_."

Finally, Sol and Robert come in, closing the door behind them. "Did you have a good afternoon, honey?" Sol asks, walking over to kiss Frankie's cheek.

She flips her sketchbook shut and beams up at him. "The muse is fickle," she says. "But I think I'm getting somewhere."

Robert, meanwhile, is kneeling on the floor by the stairs, rubbing Mahatma's ears and muttering endearments. Grace peeks over the back of the couch. "Hi, Robert," she ventures.

Robert glances up, eyes wide. "Grace! I didn't think you'd be down here."

"Well, I am." She closes her book. Waits. Isn't disappointed.

"Well, good." When she looks over, Robert is scratching the dog's belly. "Should we start thinking about dinner soon?"

"Uh, yeah," Coyote says, sticking his head around the corner, "I've been thinking about it for like an hour already."

"You ate _all my popcorn_ ," Bud says, punching him on the shoulder.

"So?" Coyote grabs him in a headlock and yanks, staggering backwards until they topple onto the couch Grace is sitting on. She winces, drawing in on herself, then stiffens her spine. 

"Great," she says, standing up. "Coyote, you can come chop vegetables. And Bud, why don't you set the table." She uses her CEO voice, even though it's overkill. And it works: the boys separate without protest and she chivvies them ahead of her into the kitchen. This is familiar. This she knows how to handle.

As she passes the table, Frankie reaches out, stopping just short of touching her arm. "Grace?" Her voice is uncharacteristically small. "Can I help you with anything?"

Grace looks down at her, tilts her head, and shrugs. "I'm fine, Frankie," she says. "If I think of something, I'll be sure to let you know." She feels Frankie's eyes on her until she turns into the kitchen, out of sight.


End file.
